


Super Wash & Fluff

by anotherwinchesterfangirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, Smut, Threesome, utterly ridiculous PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherwinchesterfangirl/pseuds/anotherwinchesterfangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean at the laundromat in their boxers playing cards (in both senses of the terms).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Super Wash & Fluff

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old idea based on [this post](http://www.http://anotherwinchesterfangirl.tumblr.com/post/144344643989) from a while back that I’d kind of forgotten about until I saw it on my idea list last week, and then I couldn’t get it out of my mind. So here we are! 
> 
> Many many thanks to my best sisterbro @withoutaplease for the last-minute beta. <33

You had a shitty day, and this is the absolute last place you want to be tonight, but when your aunt calls, desperate for you to cover a shift at her laundromat, you can’t say no. (You always have trouble saying no.) You haven’t worked a shift since college, but your aunt keeps you on the payroll just in case she needs the help, which, apparently, is a good idea on her part. So here you are—back to your college part-time job, the smell of bleach and dirty water mingling in the air as clothes spin round and round in their rows of gleaming silver machines. At least it’s not busy, and you have a good novel to keep you company. And you’ll make a little extra cash. Yeah, it’s not so bad.

The hours go by pretty uneventfully—you do the normal evening routine of wiping down the machines, sweeping and mopping the floors, making sure all the laundry carts are in their place. It’s just an hour from closing now, and the place is completely empty. You’re hopeful that no one else will come in—last loads have to be in in 15 minutes, and hardly anyone does laundry this late at night—so you kick up your feet behind the attendant’s window and crack open your book. But you’re just a few lines in when the door swings open, blowing in a gust of balmy summer night air, and you sigh and look up.  

Two guys come barging in, dragging overflowing duffle bags, and begin dumping dirty clothes into washing machines without any thought of separating colors. They’re attractive, like really _really_ attractive—tall and broad and muscular. One is shorter and broader, with short hair and lips that are just begging to be in unmentionable places. You can’t help but notice the way his jeans hug his thighs or the way his biceps bulge at the sleeves of his black t-shirt. The other is tall, impossibly tall, with long hair falling across his face as he bends over the machine. His shoulders pull at the back of his t-shirt and his jeans hang low on narrow hips. He seems to be shaking his head at his clothes.

“Dean, I don’t even know if this is gonna come out,” he says doubtfully.

“It’s just ectoplasm,” the shorter guy replies. _What?_ You’re sure you misheard him. “We’ll get the extra strength detergent, Sammy, it’ll be fine.”

You watch them over the top of your book as the tall one, Sam, goes over to the machine that sells packets of powdered detergent and dryer sheets and starts stuffing quarters into the slot with long, willowy fingers. Dean is slotting quarters into each machine, five in a row, all stuffed full. Your eyebrows shoot up as he reaches for the button of his jeans and starts to undo it. He has his jeans pushed down around his thighs ( _god_ ) before Sam notices.

“Dean!” Sam says sternly.

“What?” Dean asks, all faux innocence and shrugged shoulders. Sam clears his throat and jerks his head toward the attendant window, toward you. Dean’s eyes widen a little, but he just smirks. “Oh! I thought this was one of those places that wasn’t staffed and just had security cameras and a change machine. Sorry, sweetheart. Do you mind?”

There’s a glint in his eyes as he speaks, his voice gruff and gravelly, and you can’t quite identify it, but it makes your stomach clench in what feels like desire. You can’t get your mouth to open, so you just shake your head. With that, Dean shucks his jeans and tosses them into the washer. His shirt comes off next, and you forget to breathe for a second. He has a strange tattoo on his chest—like a star inside a flaming circle—is that a pentagram? It seems weird, but he’s hot enough that you elect to ignore it.

“Might as well get it all washed while we’re here, right?” he says with a smirk as he tosses his shirt into the washer and shuts the door.

You somehow manage to breathe, smile, brush your hair over your shoulder in what you hope is a flirty way, and nod. Sam shakes his head, but hands Dean the detergent. You look pointedly back down at your book, determined not to stare, and you hear the machines begin to whir.

The next time you glance up, they are _both_ in their boxers (well, one in boxers and one in boxer briefs), sitting across from each other at one of the cheap plastic tables, playing cards. You realize briefly that Sam has the same weird tattoo, but ultimately you’re too distracted by all the bare skin to care. It’d be a lot easier not to look at their crotches if their knees weren’t splayed so damn wide, you think. It’s practically impossible not to notice the generous bulge on both of them.

“Oh, you _fucker_ ,” you hear Sam say under his breath as he looks down at the cards in his hand. They’re playing poker, the bets between them consisting of wrinkled dollar bills and sticks of gum and…are those bullets? You wipe your sweaty palms on your jeans and look back down at your book.

After a few minutes, you notice Dean heading for the vending machine, one of those crumpled up dollar bills in his hand. He inserts it into the machine and punches the buttons for his pick.

“Oh, come _on_!” he exclaims when his snack inevitably gets stuck. Luckily you know just how to play this vending machine. You set down your book and come around the counter. He’s got both hands on either side of the machine, giving it quite the shake; you think he could probably pick it up if he wanted to.

“Um,” you say hesitantly, and he turns to look at you and you notice how sharp _green_ his eyes are and that his nose is dusted with freckles. “You just gotta…” You push the machine so it’s tilted then give it a swift kick in the side. The Hostess fruit pie slides right out of it’s slotted metal ring and into the bottom section of the machine.

“Thanks,” he says, giving you an up and down look, and you find yourself wishing you were wearing something a little nicer than ratty cutoff jean shorts and your _Super Wash & Fluff_ t-shirt.

“Hey, you in for a hand?” Sam asks from the other side of the room. You turn to look at him, sprawled over his stool (his legs are so _long_ ), and he’s holding up the deck of cards, his eyebrows lifted in question.

“Uh, sure,” you say with a shrug, and join them at the table. Dean rips into his cherry pie as Sam deals the hands. You haven’t played poker in years, but you manage to hold you own pretty well, and they seem surprised. They seem like brothers, the way they banter back and forth, and they laugh when you ask. You gather that they’re not from around here, but they’re vague about what they’re doing in town, so you back off. They ask you questions too—”What’s a girl like you doing working in a place like this?” (from Dean) and “What’re you reading?” (from Sam). The conversation is easy and they’re so funny that you’re barely even thinking about your shitty day anymore.

When the washers are finished, they transfer their clothes over to the dryers. You figure you’ve got a good forty minutes or so before the clothes will be dry, but you don’t mind being stuck here past closing with these two.

Dean comes back to the table after turning on the last dryer and picks up the deck of cards.

“So how ‘bout we add a little flavor here and make this next game strip poker?” His smirk is downright irresistible, and your stomach is in knots.

You raise your eyebrows, giving them both a once-over. You’ve got at least five items of clothing on both of them; Dean’s not even wearing socks.

You shrug. “Alright.” You haven’t been playing too badly, you even won a couple hands, so you feel pretty good about your odds.

Sam deals, and it’s quiet this time. To make it a little more fair, it’s decided that they’ll be a team—if one of them wins, you have to remove an item of clothing, but if you win they both have to remove an item of clothing.

It doesn’t go quite as well for you as you were hoping, however, and after just a few hands, you’re shifting anxiously on the plastic stool in just your underwear and bra. Your bare toes curl against the cold linoleum floor as the boys show their hands. _Finally_. You set down your cards, face up, with a victorious grin and watch both their faces as they realize you’ve got them both naked. Slowly, they both stand and remove their boxers, and you can’t help but stare. You stand too; you’re next to Dean and you keep your eyes trained steady on his tattoo as you say, “I don’t wanna play anymore.”

“Me neither,” Dean replies and wraps an arm around your waist, pulls you against his naked body, and kisses you full on the lips. He tastes like fake-sweet cherry pie filling, and the low simmer of desire in your gut roars to a boil as soon as his tongue pushes past your lips. Another set of lips touches your shoulder, fingers skim down your back to the clasp of your bra, and it takes you a second to realize it’s Sam. You reach a hand back to pull him toward you, and when you brush past his very hard (very _large_ ) cock, you involuntarily gasp. You break away from Dean, holding your bra over your breasts, even as the clasps dangle at your sides.

“Wait, lemme just…” You scurry over to the door and twist the lock into place and then jab the light switch. Just the emergency lights are on in the corner now, casting dusty shadows across the store. Their laundry is still twirling slowing in the dryers along the back wall.

When you turn to face them, Dean is looking at you like he wants to eat you, bottom lip between his teeth, slowly jerking his cock in one hand. Sam’s stance is wide, almost intimidating, his hands hanging casually at his sides.

You’re so overwhelmed by both of them; you don’t know who to touch first. You drop your hands from your breasts, letting your bra fall to your feet, and Sam reaches for you, encircling your wrist with his thumb and middle finger. He pulls you between them and tips your head back so he can kiss you gently as Dean’s hands skate up your sides to your breasts, his fingers plucking at your nipples.

You’ve never ramped up so fast in your life as you have so completely surrounded by these two walls of hot skin and firm muscle, two sets of hands and lips caressing and pulling at you from what feels like all directions, two throbbing cocks waiting for your attention. You feel like you might combust with the heady intensity of it.

You get your hand around Dean’s cock first, your fingers slipping easily in the precome spread along his shaft. His lips drag along your shoulder and the back of your neck, and he groans into your skin as you stroke him. Sam’s still kissing your lips, his hands down around your ass, his cock pressing between your legs, hard against the soaked through center of your panties, and you grind against him, desperate for some kind of friction. Sam responds by finally pushing your panties down your legs. He helps you step out of them and pushes them to the side.

“I wanna taste you,” Dean says in a shredded whisper against your ear, and turns you to face him. He kisses your mouth, but only briefly, before dropping to his knees in front of you and gently spreading your legs. Sam holds you from behind and you find his cock behind you and wrap your hand around it, jerking him slowly as you unravel under Dean’s tongue. You can’t control the noises escaping your lips.

“Good girl,” Sam coos in your ear, twisting your sensitive nipple between his fingers, and pleasure explodes over you. You’re trembling, almost writhing, in Sam’s arms, but Dean doesn’t let up, and a second orgasm comes roaring up behind the first, even more intense, and you feel like you might shake right apart, leave bits and pieces of yourself in their wanting hands.

Finally, they let you catch your breath, help you stand on wobbly legs.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean says as he gets to his feet. He wipes your damp hair off your sweaty forehead. You nod and breathe; you know they’re not done yet, and you’re nowhere near spent..

Sam moves from behind you, goes to dig in one of their bags, and you’re feeling a little steadier on your feet now, your breath coming back into your lungs. You sink to your knees and slide your lips down around Dean’s heavy cock, the salty tang of him filling your mouth, making you moan. The noise Dean counters with is sinful, and he grips you by the hair, just hard enough to let you know he likes it.

You’re so lost in sensation that you’re almost surprised when large hands slide around your hips and pull up gently, positioning you on your feet, bent at the waist between them, your lips still stretched around Dean’s throbbing cock. The head of Sam’s cock brushes your entrance, and you shudder with the anticipation of being filled.

He slides in easily, leaning forward over you so he can cup your breasts in his hands and pressing his lips to your spine, remaining still, allowing you to accommodate his length and girth inside you. As he straightens up, he begins to move, slow but hard, each thrust in pushing you forward over Dean’s cock as he fucks into your mouth. It’s a push and a pull, in perfect sync, and you’re caught between them, Dean steadying your shoulders and Sam gripping your hips. You whole body is tingling, alight with each exquisite drag of Sam’s cock inside you, and you feel weightless and ephemeral and transparent—surely they can see right through your skin, see every nerve firing, the very blood pounding through your veins.

Sam comes first, digging his fingertips hard into your hips and letting out a long, shuddering groan. When he loosens his grip, he slides a hand down around your hip and presses just _so_ against your swollen, sensitive clit, and you’re gone—clenching around his softening cock over and over.

“God, so pretty when you come,” Dean says, and you can tell he’s close because his voice is wrecked. A minute later, you’re swallowing him down, all that he can give, as he curls over you, holding your head in his hands.

Everything’s still and quiet in the laundromat as you disentangle yourselves. The dryers stopped turning probably a while ago, now the clothes just sit in fluffy heaps. Sam and Dean help you get cleaned up—Sam brings some damp paper towels from the bathroom—and collect your clothes. You end up tossing your soaked panties into the trashcan and pulling your shorts on commando; you’ll just change when you get home anyway. Dean yanks open one of the dryer doors and starts fishing through clothes, pulling out boxers, jeans, t-shirts, flannel. You watch them as they dress—pull tight t-shirts over their heads, tuck themselves into their boxer briefs, button their jeans and their flannel shirts. You still sort of in awe at what just happened.

After he’s dressed, Dean grabs their bags and starts stuffing clean clothes in.

“Aren’t you gonna fold?” you ask. You just don’t quite want them to leave yet.

“I don’t fold,” Dean says, looking at you like you just suggested he run a marathon in the middle of the night.

“I usually fold,” Sam says. “But we’ve really gotta get on the road.” He hooks a finger under your chin and lifts so you’re looking him in the eye, then he bends down to kiss you, so tenderly that it makes your chest ache. “Thanks for making this the most memorable laundry trip we’ve ever had,” he says softly.

You nod. Then dash over to the desk and grab a business card and a pen, scrawl your cell number on the back. When you turn back around, Dean is standing by the door, with his bag slung over his shoulder. Sam’s already gone.

“Call me if you’re ever in town again?” you ask, handing over the card.

“You bet your ass we will.” His kiss takes your breath away and makes your knees wobble, and you barely get your eyes open before he’s out the door.


End file.
